A/n: Many thanks to hophophop/amindamazed for being a wonderful beta. If it weren't for her, this chapter would not have happened. Also, dedicated to beanarie for her utmost patience with me.
Chapter 6
(present day)
Rich, silk carpets of deep red with Bakhara designs run from one wood panelled wall to the other, where shelves of antique vases are positioned. To the right, a chandelier hangs above the mahogany dining table, its crystal prisms refracting the orange light from the lamps. It is a lavish environment with interior design styles blending, yet he is far from being at ease. Meanwhile, the gramophone by the table lamp plays an old record of Beethoven's Symphony No. 3, and the dissonance of its first movement produces a constant grating between his shoulder blades.
"Napoleon Bonaparte."
Perfume molecules permeate the air, as enticing as the drugs that once confounded his senses.
"He was a man with vision and tenacity," the voice continues, airiness in its tone. "Beethoven regarded him as a great hero and a liberator of the oppressed. He even went as far as to dedicate this symphony to him. That is, until he learnt of the conqueror's voracious appetite for power."
Bright eyes of blue barrel into him for excruciating seconds, whittling away at his already-precarious resolve. "You haven't been sleeping well, have you? Are those nights over at Joan's keeping you up?" She cocks her head, the beginnings of a mocking smile on her lips. "Is it the sex?"
Crisp consonants and long vowels drip with condescension. She takes a seat in one of the upholstered chairs, draped with the perpetual coat of self-assuredness. With uncomfortably probing eyes, she peruses him.
Every intention of saying his piece withers. His tongue is thick in his mouth, and the words prepared beforehand scatter like defeated soldiers fleeing before the oncoming wave of the enemy.
It has never been clearer that Watson is not present today. He is on his own.
"During my period of captivity, I spent much of my time reading. When I wasn't inspired to paint, of course. Many books weren't worth a smidgen of my time, but there are a few quotes I committed to memory. What was it? Ah, yes. 'There was a certain satisfaction in bitterness. I courted it. It was standing outside, and I invited it in.'" She tilts her head pensively. "It resonated within me. I had a mind to write it to you, but by that time, you had ceased all replies to my letters and were uncontactable."
"Not all that uncontactable seeing you accomplished mailing me news of Watson's death."
His response is met with a sharp glance. "My sources spread far and wide. Surely you aren't surprised by my success in finding you. You ought to thank me for the update on Ms. Watson. Were you not pining away for her?" Lips curve to resume the lopsided smile that doesn't reach the eyes. "What are you really here for, Sherlock? I assume you didn't contact me for idle chitchat, so let's not waste each other's time, such we? I have other pressing matters to attend to."
When he remains silent, she perches her chin on a hand in an unruffled manner and lightly taps an index finger on the chair's carved birch arm. "I suppose I'll save us some time. You must want to talk about dearly beloved Joan. The most recent events have brought to light your utter dependency on her. It's quite disappointing, but on second thought, I should've known better than to expect more from an addict. It never occurred to me that an opponent of mine would be so…oh, I don't know," she muses. "Weak."
The utterance of derision burns his ears.
"Do you want to hear how she went on her own downward spiral before the accident?" She baits with a sly glance. "I've got all the details you need. Let's see. You knew about the insomnia. Did you know she resorted to sleeping pills? Two every night, without fail. Or perhaps we should begin from last Christmas, but I'm afraid it's a tale you wouldn't find to your liking. It involves an accident at a bar, and accidents haven't exactly worked out well for either of you, have they?" She purses her lips. "But since you've spent some time with Joan, tell me. Have you noticed marks on the inside of her arms, or have the cuts healed without leaving scars? Yes, it turns out Joan finds physical pain a temporary relief as well, something you're well acquainted with, I imagine. A simple blade, a few lines under the shower, no messes."
"After you left, she became incessantly obsessed with finding out the truth behind her family's deaths. She couldn't leave well enough alone. I have to say, the entire process was rather entertaining. I was most impressed with her work. Only God knows how deep she'd buried herself in the evidence she was building up against me. You would've been proud. It was a fine tribute to your methodology. Unfortunately, not a shred of that evidence can be attained. All of it, lost the day that drunk driver crashed into her car. A terrible coincidence for it to have happened so soon after her own family was fatally involved in an accident."
With the gracefulness of a ballerina, she lifts one of the two china cups from the table and blows gently on it. Steam wafts a trail in the air. When she sets the cup back down, china clinks against china. She waves a hand at the cookies laid out in perfect rows on a tray. "Hungry?"
He makes no move for them.
"You mustn't blame yourself for what happened. You had your own issues to sort out. But I'm curious." Her eyes, a cold blue and yet strangely alluring, flicker towards him. "Did any part of you doubt her death? Perhaps, when you saw that she was alive and well, did you entertain thoughts that she'd faked her own death?"
His skin prickles, the whispered suggestions sending a jolt through his heart.
"You know, she ought to have regained totality of her memory. The doctor believes she's repressing certain…traumatizing memories." A barely perceptible smile crosses her face. "A wise decision on her part. It makes matters less complicated. What is it the Americans call it? Some version of a 'Get out of jail free' card, only it grants her the right to live. You ought to be happy. She escaped death."
"Are you expecting some form of gratitude from me?"
"Yes, perhaps, but you've never been one to conform to the norms of society, so I'll let that go." She rises from her seat, brushing invisible lint from her clothes. "Here's what I'll leave you with, Sherlock," she says, voice lowered to a mere whisper. "My games are far more intricate than what you can possibly imagine. In this game, you're the dice, and even when you think you're rolling in her favour, you're not. The dice always rolls in my favour."
With that, she straightens, gesturing once more to the cookies. "Eat. You're going to need it for your going away journey."
The tattered remains of his speech flutters away with her departure. Meanwhile, Beethoven's symphony continues to unfold, a solemn funeral march accompanying the lengthening shadows of the evening.
Altocumulus clouds pattern the wide expanse of sky, reminiscent of white foam of the ocean waves. In the winter, the garden had boasted of nothing spectacular, but with the last of the frosty season fading, daffodils and tulips peek out amidst the shades of green, having flourished under nature's loving care.
She recalls standing in the cool shade of her back porch as seeds hidden in the loose, cool soil burst forth in the spring as blue scillas, sunny poppies, irises of deep purple, and bright pink azaleas. Her mother had transformed their flat, boring backyard into a blossoming garden, finding pleasure in nurturing the greens. As for her, she'd inherited the knowledge of various shrubberies, but not the intimacy. That much is clear from the lack of green in her apartment.
The wind carries with it the scent of spring, rousing bittersweet nostalgia. One doesn't have to be a painter to enjoy the art, yet, for a moment, in the little patch of greenery within the hospital grounds, she imagines.
It has become her safe haven, a place she escapes to for a little breathing space during the bad days at work, and life has scheduled consecutive days of misery for her this week.
She should've recognized signs of a bad morning. Things got progressively worse after she first toppled her coffee tumbler in her car. If it wasn't enduring offensive comments from her superior, it was fumbling with syringes or having to lecture a volunteer on the dire consequences of leaving an Alzheimer's patient on his own.
When it rains, how it pours.
Partial blame falls on the sleepless nights that have made a comeback with a vengeance: that, and the recurring images that materialize in her dreams. The cacophonies of unsettling, senseless frames are full of vivid details engaging the five senses to further etch themselves in her mind. Sometimes, she sees dark, red spots splattering on tiled floor, merging with the flow of water and swirling into the drainage pipe. Other times, they are crime scenes being cordoned off or smoldering vehicles at crossroads with the stench of black smoke.
Bits and pieces of a world that doesn't quite fit together.
Not forgetting the splitting headache that lasts most of the morning when the pandemonium in her head eventually jars her awake. All of that contributes to the niggling worry that clings to the edge of her mind, undeterred by any attempts to be shaken off.
She hadn't told anyone, not even him, even when she'd been caught in the kitchen in the dead of the night.
That's one thing they share in common: the lack of ability to have undisturbed rest. When the neon numbers of the clock on the bedside table glow an unearthly hour, she knows he'd either be seated by Clyde's terrarium, staring at the reptile as though it retains secrets untold, or fiddling with the one, rusty red lock.
Not just fiddling with it, but picking it.
Pick, pop, lock. Pick, pop, lock.
It's a constant repetition he never seems to get tired of; she assumes it has some kind of therapeutic effect on him.
That one night, he'd eyed the pill bottles before her with a strange curiosity. She told him what they were: Flexeril, for the headaches, and Sominex, for the sleeping issues. They helped with the side effects of changing work shifts and unpredictable hours, she'd continued, balking at the thought of explaining the real reason behind needing them.
He'd given her a look that made her feel like she'd been caught red-handed in a criminal act, but she'd been resolved to say nothing more. Everyone is entitled to a secret or two of his or her own, and withholding part of the truth doesn't make it a lie, does it? Surely it makes the situation marginally better than if she were to tell an outright lie.
A spot, bearing yellow and black stripes, zips into her vision before her conscience has a chance to answer. Relieved at the distraction, she watches as the flying insect lands on a purple crocus.
The Apis mellifera.
She's read about them on the Internet, which doesn't grant her the skills to tend to them like a beekeeper does, of course, but she's capable of differentiating drones from worker bees. She knows which ones are devoid of stingers, rendering them defenseless, which ones foray for food for the inhabitants in the hive, and also the little tidbit that the males depend on the females to be fed and cared for.
Now whoever said nature lacks a sense of humour?
She leans back, chuckling to herself, and places a hand on the table for support as she cranes her neck for a glimpse of a possible hive within the perimeter. It takes less than a second, but the sudden needle-like sensation that attacks the side of her palm catches her off-guard, and she stumbles, the stable ground beneath her feet having evolved into a tilting slope. As she scrambles to regain balance, partially blinded by the glare of the sun, hands scrape the rough edges of the wooden table. At that moment, the illuminated emptiness dissipates into the familiar images that flash before her: broken, disjointed pictures that vanish in the blink of an eye.
Deep, full leaves of dark green return to focus; the sun disappears innocuously behind wispy clouds.
A stinger protrudes from her flesh, and the obvious culprit, a semi-crushed bee, wiggles feebly on the table.
She forces out a nervous laugh and scrapes the stinger onto the ground with a fingernail. Instructions for treatment run through her head to calm unsettled nerves. Ice and hydrocortisone cream would help with the swelling, an antihistamine for the pain if it gets unbearable.
Oren once suffered multiple bee stings from badgering a hive and needed to take a month off school for recovery. The experience, though terrible for both him and the entire family, had provided her with the knowledge on how to deal with stings even before medical school.
The recollection takes her mind off the inexplicable event but only for a few seconds.
She rubs the uninjured hand down her face, groaning internally at the thought that perhaps the sleepless nights and headaches are causing hallucinations. Perhaps she should make an appointment with the doctor. A checkup would remove all unsettling feelings brought about by the reappearance of the symptoms.
As they say, better safe than sorry.
The motionless bee catches her eye before she leaves, giving her pause. Already, an army of ants marches forward to claim its body for their nest.
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Death is ineluctable.
The throbbing of her hand breaks through the dark cloud of thoughts.
She needs that ice.
With twenty minutes to midnight, she walks out of the hospital, physically exhausted and nursing a headache. She fails to notice the suited man in her way and collides with the body built like a brick wall. The keys in her hand clatter to the ground. Apologizing, because she ought to have been more attentive to her surroundings, she bends to retrieve them. He gets there before she does, and she wonders why anyone would wear dark glasses with the lack of sunlight.
The question finds its answer when he straightens, and the unyielding barrel of a gun presses into her side.
It is the first sensation that registers, the unforgiving hardness of the cold ground grinding against the jaw of her face. Eyes flutter open to meet more of the impenetrable blackness. Disorientated, and stricken with a growing sense of fear, she scrambles to push herself upright only to be foiled by the intense pain shooting up her left leg. Her cry resounds in the darkness. She falls back, breath catching at the unexpected agony. Tears prick the back of her eyes. She rests her head against the wall, willing the pounding in her chest to settle back to its normal pace.
Count to ten, her mentor during her early medical days used to say. Count to ten, and things will…
Will what? Magically resolve themselves?
She pushes the thought out of her head. When the pain has ebbed to an unpleasant, but bearable throb, she tugs off her shoe, wincing as she tries to survey the extent of damage done. The swelling confirms her diagnosis of torn tendons in her ankle, and she takes comfort in knowing that no bones are broken.
A sudden rattling breaks the silence. To the far left, an oblong shape of light cuts into the darkness, and a silhouette appears in the doorway. Rows of fluorescent lights burst into sudden brightness overhead, and she ducks her head, too late to shield herself from the intrusion. Patches of white, almost a fiery green, pulsate beneath her eyelids in accordance with the constant rhythm of pain.
"I must apologize. I was hoping to meet under better circumstances, but time constraints have provided limited options."
The soft, sultry voice rings in the air. Boots clomp against concrete ground, a relaxed, deliberate saunter with a tortuously slow pace.
A low buzzing has infiltrated the emptiness, echoing the drilling in her head. She blinks to adjust to the brightness. Faint bluish smudges on her ankle stand out clear in the presence of light. She lifts her head cautiously. Blank walls stretch from one end to the other with thick pillars that rise to support a high ceiling, the cement floor unoccupied with the exception of a single chair, and now, two living bodies.
The owner of the elegant voice fixes light-coloured eyes on her, examining her like one would an unpleasant virus trapped under a microscope. She meets the unwavering gaze. The captor, with a hand on the back of the chair, begins dragging it across the floor. The screeching claws at already-ragged nerves, driving needles into the bottom of her spine. It is soon replaced with the sound of metal tapping against wood, demanding equal attention.
Her captor, gun dangling in hand, has straddled the chair, its back facing front. She gives a smile that grants no reassurance of any kind.
She stares back, heart pounding in her chest.
"Do you like games, Joan Watson?"
Does she like games?
Should the right answer be yes, or no? Is it a trick question, and is there even a right answer?
"It's not a difficult question...but just so you know, my games are always worth a shot." Yet another smile which provides a vibe of discomfort. "I hope you liked the painting I sent you. I spent two weeks on it. Beautiful house."
Dread spreads from the pit of her stomach to the tips of fingers. "Irene?" She whispers, a wave of nausea sweeping over her.
"Brilliant deduction, Watson," is the pleased reply. "Unfortunately, I have to tell you that Irene Adler is but one of my aliases. To her name, she's managed to fool one of my most remarkable opponents: Sherlock Holmes. I'd say that's quite an accomplishment, wouldn't you agree?"
"Sherlock," she mumbles, head beginning to spin. "You know Sherlock."
"Exceptionally well. An excellent specimen of the human species. Highly intelligent, competent in bed, and largely responsible for causing this little charade you call life. Are you familiar with illusions, Joan? It's quite fascinating how the mind accomplishes tricking itself into believing that fantasy is reality. How it's capable of registering what you wish to see, and hides the details that you have every intention of erasing to suit your world. If I didn't find your incapability to appreciate the intricacies of my plan so piteous, I would leave you to indulge in this illusion you call reality. Unfortunately, it also hinders the full potential of my game, which remains too mild for my taste at the moment. I like to make full use of my…resources." A barely discernible smile tilts painted lips. "Perhaps we could do a little something to jog your memory. Raise the stakes."
Irene vacates the chair, gun swinging loosely from her grasp.
Cradling the bee-stung arm, which burns with pain, she presses against the wall as though it would allow her to place more distance between her and the woman with the incomprehensible words.
"Do you know the instant he learnt of your demise, he came running back here? Straight to you. Yes, fascinating, isn't it? I was curious to know how he would react to news of your death. After your little accident, the circumstances were rather easy to manipulate. With the convenience of your memory loss, it wasn't difficult to pretend Joan Watson no longer existed. And yet, somehow, he managed to end up…here." She lowers herself to the ground.
At the first metallic touch of the gun on her swollen ankle, she jerks back.
A gleam of dark pleasure appears in the impenetrable, blue eyes. "Tell me, Joan, what is it about you that lures the great Sherlock Holmes in like a addict to his drug? Why is he willing to forgo his passion for deductive work to be a...personal butler for someone like you?"
Fear is hard to mask, but admittance of it would be akin to admitting defeat, and in this insane situation she has committed herself to now, admitting defeat means the game is over. Game over would mean something she'd rather not contemplate right now.
A stiff jaw and dry tongue would not form the words to defend herself.
In defiance, she stares back at the unblinking eyes, pushing past the roaring fire that consumes her hand, the throbbing of her ankle, and the heart palpitations in her throat, even when the smile mocks her attempt at bravery, even as pressure is deliberately inflicted on her ankle until vision blurs, even as waves of pain wash over her, and bright flashes spike before her eyes.
Thoughts run rapid, in no particular direction, with no destination in mind. A voice screams in her head as the lights flicker. In the moments of darkness, images spin like a carousel out of control, as they always do at night, only with a renewed fury. Faces of family and coffins in graves; the solemn words 'ashes to ashes, dust to dust' echoing through a tunnel; straight, red lines on skin; round, white pills and endless black nights; a man in his beekeeper's suit, rattling off facts and date of the Apis Mellifera; the Brownstone and a shattered phrenology bust; crashed cars and black smoke; guns; and screaming.
People screaming; people yelling police.
And in the chaos, a voice crying, "Watson!"
Watson!
The massive building stares with dark, vacant eyes, its four walls the only witnesses to the events transpired within. The last of the police cars vanishes around the corner, taking with them flashing sirens, and a cuffed, pale Jamie Moriarty in the backseat. He turns away, pushing himself up on the tips of his toes with the lingering spikes of nervous energy. She sits on the curb, immersed in a pensive stillness after having won a debate with the aides of not needing to be hospitalized. Her fingers play absent-mindedly with the strap of an unworn shoe as her bandaged ankle rests on the gravel.
They said she was lucky nothing worse happened, that all she'd escaped with was with an inversion injury, together with a couple of scratches her arm sustained, and a bee sting, oddly enough. An accident, she'd told the medics, after which her eyes met his for a split-second before she looked away.
Her expression had generated an emotion, which, unsurprisingly, he could not put his finger on. While the lack of success in emotional analysis has never stopped him from attempting to wrap his mind around it, he still harbours hopes of being able to dismantle that immovable roadblock in his path someday, to break down the indecipherable puzzle into little details, to peel apart and compartmentalize the tangled mess.
The question is when.
A night breeze coasts by. He shuffles closer to her. Goose bumps trail down on her crossed arms. He shrugs off his coat, drapes it around her without a word, and after a moment's hesitation, hunkers down.
With the ligaments of the ankle torn, making the short distance to the car would be an indubitably tedious and painful task.
Not that he's comfortable verbalizing that particular thought.
She clambers onto his back, and he takes small comfort that she understands his intention despite his reluctance to speak it out loud. They begin the trek down the cracked, concrete pavement, without a word exchanged between them.
Strange how people change. At the moment, he would give an arm for one of those 'small talks' he detests, to hear a simple "Are you okay?" or "I'm fine, how about you".
Where is the glorious, triumphant sense of having defeated his nemesis? Or the delight of having retrieved his partner? In place of those wretchedly addictive emotions is a confounding heaviness that bears down on him; guilt has come to take precedence again now that the adrenaline is wearing off, clinging onto him like a leech, determined to suck the life out of him.
"There's nothing on this planet quite so toxic as guilt."
Words barely above a whisper, as subtle as the wind rustling the trees, carry enough weight to stall his feet. Under the row of street lamps that illuminate his way, on the weathered path covered with washed-out chalk drawings, he halts. For a fraction of a second, a rapturous emotion overwhelms him, stealing his breath, eliminating the insurmountable guilt. Perhaps it's what they call hope. In the rare moment that attests to encompassing his entire being, in that single frame of his life, there is absolute silence.
He feels her inhale. Exhale. Once, twice, three times.
Breathing.
"Someone once told me he knew virtually everything on poison. I guess he was wrong." Mirthless humour laces her words. "I tried to find you. I called. Texted. Dispatched the cavalry."
"You're right. I was wrong."
The admission tumbles from his lips into the night.
How strange that making public his failure would be a relief.
"I was wrong," he repeats. "I was presumptuous. Rash. I failed to discern the appropriate actions. I should've…"
Stayed.
His breath hitches.
Yes, it doesn't take a genius to conclude that his judgment had been faulty. He'd been too busy wallowing in guilt, fighting off his own demons to notice the descent of his partner. His oversight had provided the opportunity for him to be manipulated, but he'd been afraid. Afraid to lose her, afraid she would realize how much she'd sacrificed, how she would find out he was the ultimate cause for the deaths of her family, afraid she would leave. He'd been fearful of what that loss would encompass, and the fear was a dark abyss consuming him from the inside, gnawing at him.
Yet that had been nothing compared to the sheer terror that immersed him when he learnt of her death.
"Approximately two months six days ago, I received a letter containing news of your demise. I thought that…perhaps, like with Irene, I thought, maybe, it wasn't…" He falters, the words struggling in vain to make it past the emotions that coagulate in his throat. "I had to know. For certain." He blinks away the film that encumbers his vision. "I sourced out your whereabouts and found out where you were working. Rigged it such that you'd be the one to stitch me up. But I'd absolutely no clue as to what my next step was. After that night at the bar, I dabbled with telling you the truth. I spent night after night weighing the options. Countless times, I was on the verge of spilling the truth, but it seemed, to me…unfair to ruin the life you'd rebuilt for yourself."
He'd wrecked her life once. He didn't have to do it a second time.
"And how did you find me? Today."
He hesitates. Telling her about his plan beforehand would've meant revealing the truth, and the truth had not been ready to present itself. Lying about how he found her was and still is out of the question. There's a difference between holding back a truth and a blatant lie to her face.
"Your watch," he tells her, and with bated breath, waits as she undoes the leather strap of the accessory he'd modified not more than a week ago.
It takes her less than a minute to notice the barely visible slit at the back of the watch face. She jiggles the metal piece loose, and a tiny chip the size of a grain of rice falls onto her upturned palm.
"You were tracking me."
A statement, not a question; fact, and not mere theory.
The barrage of words about his invasion of privacy does not come.
It is a strangely unsettling place to be in.
"Watson?"
Her name fits in his mouth the way the final puzzle piece fits snugly to form a complete picture.
"If you wish for me to leave, I would understand. I have caused you…" Thoughts arrange and re-arrange, string together and break apart, flitting around in his head. He swallows hard. "Anguish."
"Where would you go?"
The dark, cloudless sky stares back at him. "I don't know."
How ironic that he has failed to provide an answer when much of his life has been spent unscrambling puzzles and dissecting mysteries. How baffling that his mind would draw a blank in this very situation when he has made numerous deductions out of even the most obscure circumstances.
Her quiet sigh grazes his skin. His heart quivers. With emotions simmering and no words left to be spoken, he resumes walking.
A lone cricket chirrups in the silence. It is an arduous journey uphill, made especially uncomfortable by the warm wetness on his face that he has no way of wiping off.
"You said you'd never carry me on your back if we were chased by evil thugs."
It almost brings about a smile. "And I specifically recall being told if there's one thing a certain someone knows with a hundred percent certainty, it's that people change."
He agrees, with the one who has become more than an interesting project, more than a thing to be solved. It is all she has been to him, and the promise of what she can be to him, that nourishes both the contentment and fear that reside in him.
"I did it, you know."
"Did what?"
"The locks. I moved them," she says, resting her head next to his. "I know what you're thinking. That it's impossible, but you've gone through it plenty of times. I'm the only one with access to it besides you during that timeframe, and someone told me once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."
"The old windbag. Explain how you fooled the videotape."
"You're a detective. You tell me."
At horizon's edge, where the city's skyline stands tall and proud, the beginning of dawn's rays lightens the canopy of darkness over the metropolis. Faint, barely visible to the human eye, and yet irrefutable.